


None So Blind

by Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Families of Choice, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:28:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt at the meme:  http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6034.html?thread=8970386#cmt8970386</p><p>Douglas becomes telepathic for a day and is determined to fix what he hears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	None So Blind

Not being a man predisposed to self-reflection, Douglas doesn’t spend any time wondering how exactly he came by his unusual gift. Instead, he spends the time blatantly ogling people, purposely taking the bus to the airfield for a chance to see how his newfound powers have manifested themselves.

From the lady at the newsagents, he gets nothing but a steady stream of concern about a Mrs. Pickles, with flashes of the kind of white, furry cat that seems to be the staple of cat food adverts, and an overwhelming urge to set fire to something. Curiously, when he steps foot on the bus, he’s greeted with nothing but silence. He deliberately chooses a seat between two people who look like they have a lot on their minds (based entirely on the lack of anything going on on their faces), but still gets nothing but eerie silence.

The bus drops him off at the end of the airfield, and Douglas is left to walk up the drive, where he runs into Dirk. The groundsman offers his traditional mumble of a greeting, before turning his tractor mower back to the infield. But not before Douglas gets flashes of what’s on his mind: the shepherd’s pie in his lunch pail and the thought of his wife in various intimate poses. Douglas grimaces in distaste and moves on swiftly, the better to be out of range of Dirk’s increasingly raunchy thoughts.

Arthur is the only one there when he enters the Portakabin, but Douglas is instantly inundated with Arthur’s roller coaster of a train of thought, whiplashing from one subject to the next with frightening speed. Douglas considers himself no slouch in the thinking department, but even his deduction skills have often paled in the face of one of Arthur’s patented non-sequitors. And now he sees why. If this is what the mind of an Arthur looks like at 6 am, it’s a wonder he even pauses long enough to _hold_ a conversation. Douglas is momentarily in shock, and it causes him to miss the entirety of whatever Arthur tells him. He just nods and tosses his hat onto his desk, grateful for his reputation of being less-than-coherent before 9 of a morning. He’s positive that’s in his contract somewhere.

Eventually, Douglas’s brain adapts, and he begins to hear Arthur’s internal monologue as a bit of white noise, like waves crashing on a shore. They sit in companionable silence--or relative silence, anyway--while they wait for the others to come in. Once he’s successfully trained himself to filter out Arthur’s noise, he begins to hear something slightly different, like a lone violin playing in a minor key amongst a symphony of thought. It niggles at his inner ear, taunting him with its dissonance. Curious, he tries to focus on it, to isolate it from the rest. He’s nearly successful when the door slams open and Carolyn strides through.

“Mart--” She pauses. “Douglas? Can you really be here before Captain Clockwatcher?!”

Douglas huffs a bit. “Yes, thank you, Carolyn. I _am_ here early. I expect it will be reflected in my paycheck accordingly.”

“Of course not,” Carolyn sniffs. “It will merely be deducted from the hours of accumulated late time I’ve been keeping.”

Douglas tips his head at her from where he’s making coffee in recognition of her scored point and hands over her mug. He’d blame his losing that round of their tête–à–tête on the addition of her inner monologue to the fray, but he knows it would be dishonest. He’s always enjoyed the witty banter he’s had with Carolyn, especially since she’s just as apt to score points off him as he is off her.

Carolyn’s inner voice is a much lower pitch than her normal speaking tones, and even lower than Arthur’s nearly mouse-like thoughts--much more grounded and earthy than the wisps of thought that flit across the steward’s mind. Carolyn is thinking of practical matters--of the cost of the electricity they’re currently using, the need to buy more coffee for catering, of the schedule for the next month, and the flight plan for today. There is nothing in her mind but the laser-like focus on the success of MJN. Except... There, when she first walks into the room and sees Arthur, is a single pure note, bright and shiny and over as quick as it begins. Douglas knows that note. He understands it. He imagines he would find a similar one in the breast of any parent he cared to listen to.

“Speaking of,” Douglas says, ostensibly not missing a beat, “Where is our intrepid Captain?”

Carolyn shrugs. “No idea. But if he’s not here in the next half hour, we’re leaving without him, CAA or no.”

As Carolyn heads back into her office, Douglas settles himself into his chair, picking up the crossword where he’s left off. It’s another 20 minutes before Martin makes his way in, lines of fatigue at the corners of his eyes and a hunched set to his shoulders that has Arthur up and making coffee before he even opens his mouth.

“Good morning, mon Capitan,” Douglas says. “Up burning the midnight candle, were we?”

Martin only grunts and waves a floppy hand in his direction before taking the mug from Arthur. It’s probably for the best he doesn’t actually say anything to Douglas, because the steady, percussive pounding of his thoughts is enough to throw off the First Officer’s game. He’s careful to keep up a cheerful facade as they board the plane and take off, but it grows difficult.

 

As the flight to Sri Lanka goes on, Douglas finds himself with little to occupy his time. Martin refuses to play any word games, and Arthur’s sequestered himself in the back to finish watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Although initially a bit miffed, he becomes grateful by the time they’re halfway over Europe and the headache that’s been threatening all day blooms into a migraine. Martin’s habitual occasional glance sideways turns into an outright examination when he sees Douglas’s pallor. Hesitantly, he reaches out a hand to prod gently at his shoulder.

“Douglas? Are you...are you alright?”

Douglas opens his eyes and forces a smile. “Perfectly fine. Fit as a cello.”

Martin clearly doesn’t believe him, but before he can muster a reply, Douglas leaves the flight deck to rummage around in the galley. When he returns, it’s with two bottles of water and a bottle of painkillers. To Martin’s inquisitive stare, he only says “Headache,” and swallows three pills dry before draining half a bottle of water in one go.

Martin nods and waits until Douglas is resettled before leaving for the loo. On the way, he has a quick chat with Arthur and gains assurances that the steward will stay in the back of the plane for the remainder of the flight. He’s immediately amenable, especially when Martin reminds him of Douglas’s propensity for lashing out at the nearest target like a bear with a sore paw.

Martin returns to the flight deck, and spends the rest of the airtime being as quiet as possible, even dimming the lights when they cross into night. Douglas is more grateful than he knows how to say, losing the words behind the whirring of his brain in its attempt to keep up with the continual noise of Martin and Arthur’s thoughts. What was once the equivalent of a secret party trick has become a serious drain on his mental resources, and Douglas is determined to find a way to temper the deluge of information.

The single discordant note in Arthur’s internal music has been driving him mad all day, and paired with the incessant throbbing of Martin’s drums it’s a miracle he’s able to sleep at all when they reach Colombo. Luckily, it seems dreams aren’t quite as loud as waking thoughts and once his companions drift off, Douglas succumbs to his exhaustion.

His alarm clock is the first thing he hears the next morning, but already he’s bracing himself for the deluge of sound, waiting for Martin and Arthur to wake up. But when he turns over, Martin is already gone, bed neatly made and shower running. Douglas sits up blearily, checking his phone for messages. He’d be doubting his sanity if it weren’t for the residue of yesterday’s migraine clinging to the edges of his brain. But there’s no symphony, no drums, nothing of the cacophony from before. Douglas breathes a sigh of relief and spends the rest of the day pretending nothing happened. And if he occasionally sees something that leaves him with an unsettling feeling that _something_ is not right, he blames it on an over-active imagination and ignores it.

It’s not until the following day that Douglas realizes something different. After spending the time off in self-imposed seclusion, he feels rested and recharged, enough so he feels well enough to start the latest in his campaign to keep Carolyn on her toes by showing up early again. He figures it will be useful to set a pattern of believable behavior in case he ever actually needs to be early to load some...unofficial cargo. When he enters the Portakabin, the CEO is already on the phone, even though it’s not yet 7 am.

“No. Absolutely not,” she says. “There is nothing in heaven or on earth that you could offer me that would make me sell you my plane, Gordon. Stop asking.” As she’s speaking, she takes off her watch and rubs her wrist, a gesture Douglas has seen a hundred times. But this time, he catches a glimpse of something bright blue that had been hidden by the watch strap. He saunters over to the kitchen station and makes a cup of coffee, listening idly as Carolyn argues with her ex-husband. When it’s finished, he returns to her desk and hands her one of the mugs he’s prepared, trying to get a glimpse of whatever’s on her wrist. All he manages to catch is “urity,” which doesn’t tell him much.

There’s not much else he can do from his vantage point without giving anything away, so he saunters casually back to his desk and settles himself behind the financial sheets from the paper. Martin and Arthur eventually blow in and the day begins.

Halfway through their flight to Antwerp, Arthur comes in to bring them their meals. Douglas slides his paperback aside just before Arthur sets it on the console, narrowly avoiding singing yet another book. As he does, he catches a glimpse of a thin, red line on Arthur’s palm.

“What’s that on your hand, Arthur?” he asks.

Arthur looks down where he’s holding their meals. “What?”

Douglas takes his meal, then grabs Arthur’s hand before he can pull it away. “There!” He points to the word “stupid” written in looping letters across Arthur’s broad palm. “On your hand. Why does it say...” He stops himself short; Arthur is looking at him like he’s lost his mind.

“It...it doesn’t say anything, Douglas. It’s just my hand. It’s a little red because I let the meals sit for a bit longer than usual, and I thought they would be okay to pull out of the cooker, but they weren’t.”

Douglas is already shaking his head, trying to cover. “Ah, well that explains it then.” Except the marks _aren’t_ random, and are clearly not the result of a kitchen mishap. Emblazoned in scarlet is the “stupid,” and on the other palm Douglas can just about make out the “unwanted” in the same script. He releases Arthur’s hand and sets his face into a carefully neutral expression, turning back toward the controls.

Martin looks at him oddly, but miraculously doesn’t comment, choosing instead to lob another volley in their latest game. Douglas plays along, nibbling at the catering before abandoning it as a bad job.

 _Maybe it’s just a hereditary thing,_ he thinks. _Just Carolyn and Arthur_. But he quickly dismisses that as he catches sight of the back of Martin’s neck when the younger man turns to look out the windscreen.

“Martin,” he says, adopting a quietly urgent tone. “Don’t move. There’s a spider on your collar. I’m just going to get it for you.”

Martin stays obediently still and Douglas feigns catching the offending arachnid long enough to get a good look at Martin’s mark. There, in two-inch-high letters, thick and blocky like an official CAA rubber stamp, is the word “failure.” Douglas can’t help himself. Before he fully realizes what he’s doing, he’s brushed his fingers over the word, half expecting them to come away black and damp with ink. They don’t, of course, but the movement over his nape gives Martin a chill, and he shakes Douglas off.

“Got it,” Douglas says, and excuses himself to the loo, ostensibly to get rid of the spider. In reality, he rests his hands against the walls on either side of the mirror, resting his forehead against the cool glass.

“Get it together, Richardson,” he mumbles to himself. “You’ve never liked how you look in white and butterfly nets are so last season.” So reassured, he splashes his face with water and returns to the cockpit, just in time to hear Martin cautioning Arthur to be on his best behavior around Douglas.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Martin is saying, “but as his friends it’s our job to make him feel better. And that means letting him be as Douglassy as he needs.”

Douglas can see the back of Arthur’s head nod. “Alright, Skip. I’ll just be in the back if you want anything.”

“Good man,” Martin says, then starts when he sees Douglas coming up the aisle. “No, that’s alright, Arthur. We don’t need any more drinks, thanks.”

“But I didn’t---” Arthur is interrupted by Douglas’s arrival. “Oh, right.” He gives a nod to Martin and excuses himself to the galley.

Touched but still a bit wary, Douglas re-takes his seat and offers up another word game. “Words that end in -urity. Surety.”

Martin ponders for a minute. “Purity.”

Douglas nods. “Security.”

“Insecurity.” Douglas immediately protests that Martin’s cheated, but the back of his mind is considering it. Eventually, he dismisses it as not fitting Carolyn’s profile and moves on.

“Futurity.” 

“That’s not a word!” Martin squawks. 

“Of course it is. The state of being that is yet to come.”

Martin huffs. “Fine. Well, then....obscurity.”

Something sparks in Douglas’s brain. A short conversation under Gertie’s wing. The way Carolyn says “CEO” with the same forcefulness Martin says “Captain.” A disastrous trip to Helsinki.

Douglas, for an entire three seconds, is speechless. Then his brain kicks back into gear. “Immaturity.”

Martin immediately counters with “maturity,” but Douglas wins with “impurity” and the cheese tray is his. As Martin takes the landing, Douglas starts slotting things into place. Now that he knows the cause, his mind starts working on solutions. That night he makes a few calls and sends a few messages, and things are in motion.

The call from the Fitton Times asking to do a story on Carolyn for a feature on successful businesswomen surprises everyone but Douglas. What _does_ surprise him are the things he learns about her from the resulting article. He’d always assumed that the sweet shop had been a bust, taking her marriage with it, and that Carolyn, in an effort to escape her family’s attention, had come to London to lose herself in the anonymity of a large city. In reality, Knapp Sweets was a thriving business, with nearly a dozen branches in the north. Carolyn had simply disliked the industry and the stagnation of being required for the business all the time and had moved south, landing squarely on her feet at Air England.

On their next flight to Cairo, Douglas arranges for a friend of his to bump into Arthur just as he’s giving his famous Egyptology lecture to their passengers. Professor Behkit offers to take Arthur on a private tour of the city, and whisks him away for their entire two-day layover. When he returns, Arthur is wide-eyed with excitement and awe, chattering the entire flight with his new-found knowledge of Egypt. Shockingly, when Douglas tries to uphold his end of their agreed-upon exchange, the package is returned with a note that simply says Arthur is most avid pupil the professor’s ever had and it would be a privilege to take him out again any time they find themselves in the city. Douglas is at first duly impressed, but then later regretful as he tries to find a way to rid himself of four cases of Marmite.

Removing Martin’s proves to be a bit trickier. Finally, Douglas alights on what he considers an elegant solution. The next time they have a layover in a British airport, Douglas situates himself at the bar, holding court like he used to in his Air England days. The first officers of his generation are now the chief pilots of various organizations, venerable old men whose every word is respected. And Douglas has dirt on nearly all of them. He gathers a crowd with tales of exploits from his early days of flying “when captains were captains and first officers knew when to shut the hell up.” Every story earns him a chuckle and another couple of pilots to the group, until he owns the attention of nearly everyone in the bar. Just before they’re scheduled to step to the plane, Douglas starts his final tale, putting as much drama and and intrigue into it as he can possibly muster up. He reaches the climax just as Martin enters the lounge to hurry him along, raising his voice to carry over the crowd.

“...not a bit of a slide. You’ve never seen anything like it--manual perfect.”

Martin rolls his eyes as he steps forward to collect his errant first officer. Douglas grins at him from where he’s sitting on top of the table, jacket slung over a nearby chair and cuffs, collar, and tie unprofessionally loosened. Before he can open his mouth to remind Douglas of time, the older man grins at him cheekily.

“Ah, Captain Crieff!”

As one, the crowd turns to look at him and Martin immediately flushes in expectation of the disdain. 

“You-you’re Captain Crieff?” one of them ventures.

Martin stands just the tiniest bit straighter. He might as well be professional if he’s going to be mocked. “Yes, I am. Captain Martin Crieff, MJN Air.”

There’s silence in the room. Before he can wonder at it, Douglas claps a broad hand on his shoulder.

“That’s right. Captain Crieff. The very same I was just telling you about.”

Martin tries to turn and look at him, but Douglas keeps his hand clamped on Martin’s shoulder, forcing him to face forward. Resigned, he examines the faces in front of him, then pauses in surprise. There’s no derision or mocking on their faces. Instead, he sees respect, appreciation, and even (on the faces of one or two of the youngest pilots) awe. Martin is stunned, and he feels his mouth begin to gape open. Before can say anything to ruin the moment, however, Douglas has whisked him out the door and down onto the tarmac. Martin’s in a daze for the rest of the flight, suffused with a warm glow that leaves his fingers and toes tingling.

Douglas watches him slyly from the corner of his eye, handling the takeoff with practiced ease and setting the autopilot before Martin has a chance to recover. His mark is no less dark than it was before, but Douglas is relieved to notice the edges of are a tad less sharp than they used to be. It’s small progress, but Douglas has developed a campaign plan that’s sure to boost Martin’s confidence and erase the last of the dark letters. His previous efforts with Carolyn and Arthur are shaping up nicely, and there’s no reason to think Operation Martin won’t go as well. He is, after all, Douglas Richardson, and he is _enormously_ capable.

They land in Fitton sixteen minutes ahead of schedule which Douglas uses to convince his ex-wife to bring his daughter around early. He leaves shortly thereafter, pausing only to sign the required paperwork and pick up the present for his daughter he’d left in his desk. Once he’s gone, a silence descends in the office, broken only by the scratching of Martin’s pen and Arthur’s idle kicking of the desk as he reads.

Martin finishes and stretches, cramped and sore from a long day, before taking the paperwork into Carolyn’s office. She nods as she looks it over, then files it away in her desk. Martin turns to leave.

“Oh, Martin,” she says. “One thing. How does it look?”

Martin turns around, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Better, I think,” he replies. “Less defined than before, but still very, very dark.”

Carolyn looks thoughtful then nods sharply, clearly dismissing him. Martin waves to Arthur as he gathers his flight bag and heads out into the night, pondering the “useless” stamped around Douglas’s left ring finger. Douglas’s mark is thick and dark, but Martin’s not worried; between the three of them, they’ll get rid of it somehow.


End file.
